We Are Pleased To Announce
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: A series of one-shot-ish chapters in which John and Sherlock tell some of the people in their lives about their marriage.  Set after "Our Mutual Friend".
1. Mrs Hudson

**A/N:** Good fun only! Set after "Our Mutual Friend". I do not own, nor do I profit from. If I were profiting from it, I'd be somewhere cooler right now, avoiding this heatwave. Enjoy!

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><p>At the knock on the door, Mrs. Hudson glanced up then put aside her knitting and stood, taking care with her hip, which always acted up a bit more in the winter. She hadn't heard anyone at the front door, nor had she heard anyone on the stairs coming from Sherlock and John's flat and this probably meant it was John at her door. The knock had also been his – less urgent, less hammering. Sherlock never did do things by halves.<p>

She made her way through her flat and pulled open the door. It was indeed John standing in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, grinning at her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he greeted her brightly, his smile widening.

Mrs. Hudson smiled back. She was uncertain what the cause of his obvious good mood was, but it was always nice to see John really smiling, truly happy.

"Good morning, dear," she replied and he surprised her by leaning in and giving her a peck on the cheek. He smelled of soap, so he was fairly freshly showered. Probably not surprising given the exuberant activities that had taken place the night before. Mrs. Hudson had eventually gone to visit her sister for the evening. She had no problems with Sherlock and John's extracurricular pursuits, and it was certainly better than having things explode or Sherlock shooting the walls for something to do, but sometimes they did get boisterous and she found it best just to give them their space.

She had no complaints about this. They were generally considerate of her presence as well, and Mrs. Hudson was more than a little pleased that Sherlock had found someone whom he not only liked but whom he loved. As long as she'd known him, he had seemed slightly lonely, that touch that showed around the edges and that indicated there was more, buried and ignored. He was an extraordinarily perceptive man but not when it came to what he needed, and he had never particularly considered that his own happiness might be relevant or that it might involve other people. For too long, it had been only his work.

Then John Watson had walked into his life – limped, rather, at the time – and had changed all of that without ever intending to.

"Can you come upstairs a moment?" John asked, tilting his head toward the staircase that led up to their flat, his hands still tucked into his pockets. He was dressed more casually than the brief moment she'd seen him yesterday, backing up the stairs, half dragging, half being led by Sherlock, locked in a passionate kiss. They had failed to notice her, even Sherlock, but she had noted that they were both well dressed. This was not surprising for Sherlock, but more so for John, and she had never seen that suit nor that trench coat.

She'd caught them coming in off cases like this before, so relieved they'd survived some narrow escape that they could not keep their hands off one another, but neither of them had the scuffed appearance that went along with that, so she'd wondered where they'd been.

"Everything all right?" she asked. "That tap isn't leaking again is it?"

"What?" John asked. "Oh, no. Come upstairs."

He grinned at her and she pulled the door closed behind her, following him up. Sherlock was waiting on the other side of the open door, also grinning, hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said.

Sherlock beamed at her.

This was a bit unexpected – he did have a tendency to smile genuinely at her, and Mrs. Hudson knew full well that she was one of the few people about whom he really cared. John had expanded the number by one so that the grand total came to three, including herself and Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock's mother, with the additional possibility of his brother and father, but she had never been sure about that.

"What's going on, boys?" she asked, glancing between them. John had moved to stand beside Sherlock again and both of them were grinning like madmen.

"Go on," John said, nodding at Sherlock. "You've known her longer."

For a moment, Sherlock looked annoyed. No – not annoyed, pensive, as if trying to solve some problem.

"How does one do this?" he asked, looking over at John.

John rolled his eyes, pulling his right hand from his pocket and making a vague circle with it.

"Just say it, Sherlock," he said.

"Say what?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Has something happened?"

Judging by the grins, it had, but not something untoward.

"Oh, all right," Sherlock said. "It lacks the necessary pomp and circumstance, but given that we have avoided any of that altogether, I _will _just say it. We got married. Yesterday."

Mrs. Hudson stared at him a moment, certain she'd heard that wrong, but Sherlock pulled his left hand from his pocket and John did the same. Identical gold-and-bronze wedding bands glinted on their left ring fingers, catching the light faintly.

She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and both of them grinned wider, if that were possible. Mrs. Hudson looked between them again, then bundled Sherlock quickly into a hug, wrapping her arms around his thin frame, on which he had at least put a few healthy pounds since he and John had become partners. He laughed, returning the hug, then she hugged John with equal ferocity, planting a firm kiss on his cheek.

"I knew it!" she said. "I just knew it! Oh, boys, it's more than about time! I want all of the details, right now. Tea and a chat, that's what we'll do. Married! It's lovely, just lovely! Ooh, just _wait_ until I tell Mrs. Turner next door!"


	2. Sibyl

He had promised John he would do this, so he would.

It was ridiculous that it would seem so daunting. Really, it hadn't been when he had told Mrs. Hudson. Therefore it should not be so now.

He had faced down all manner of criminal madmen, he had survived a confrontation with Jim Moriarty, he had seen John with Semtex strapped to his chest – Sherlock pushed this memory aside; it was not allowed to make itself known, not today – he had been attacked, chased, shot at, shot and hit, kidnapped, bound and gagged, all more times than he cared to count at the moment. He worked with criminals and police officers (sometimes both the same individuals) on a regular basis. He had contacts at all levels, from his homeless informants on the street to people in the highest of political offices – some of these more influential than even Mycroft.

He contended with stupidity in all forms, from simple lack of observation to full blown idiocy. The latter of these mostly went by the name of Anderson but sometimes occurred in other people as well.

He was far more intelligent than most of the population of the world and undoubtedly more observant than the majority of the proper geniuses because he had trained himself to be so. He had taken a natural talent for deduction and scrutiny and elevated it to a science, moulding it into a viable career for himself to the point where he was paid in the thousands for a single case. This would be impressive if he cared a whit about money. The true success had been when Lestrade had begun to consult him on a regular basis, for which Sherlock refused all payment.

He had done what no one else had done in centuries, and then only a select handful of men in France. He was a consulting detective, the only one in the world.

He was Sherlock Holmes.

There was no one else quite like him.

He fiddled with his phone.

Of course, this necessitated that he acknowledge that there was only one Sibyl Holmes as well, and that there was no one else quite like _her._

What could she have done, he wondered, if only she had put her mind to it?

Anything.

He frowned slightly, staring at the phone's darkened screen.

No, the question was, what _had_ she done, having put her mind to it? Sherlock had enough information on Mycroft that he knew what his brother was up to – when he so desired to know, which was almost never. It was tedious having Mycroft watching over his shoulder all of the time via informants or CCTV cameras or through kidnapping John – although this last would be beneficial this evening, and John had gone so far as to set it up deliberately.

But Sibyl.

Sherlock had never entirely known what she might be doing. There was so much that lay hidden there, and this was more than the simple fact that she had lived twenty-nine years before his birth. She kept herself maddeningly concealed, because she was not concerned about having power, about having her own superior intelligence acknowledged, about exercising her influence.

He had never understood this about her.

Nor had Mycroft.

Sherlock heard a creak from the floorboards in the spare bedroom and returned his attention to the present. John was up there, having given him privacy to make this call. But he would be wondering what was taking so long.

Sherlock drew a breath and unlocked his phone, thumbing through his contacts until he came to her mobile number. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he could convince John to do this, since Sibyl was very fond of John and it would save Sherlock the task.

Not that he was apprehensive about it.

Perhaps John would appreciate the opportunity to do so. He seemed equally as fond of Sibyl as she was of him.

Really, it would be a loving gesture on Sherlock's part.

Except John would raise his eyebrows and give Sherlock that captain's glare indicated that Sherlock was avoiding something he found discomfiting.

_Blast_, he thought. Caught between his husband and his mother.

He rang her number and put the phone to his ear, not at all biting his lip while he waited for her to answer. She picked up on the second ring as she always did. Enough of a delay to ascertain who was calling and to not seem overly interested in the call without coming across as dismissive of the caller by waiting any longer.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said warmly.

He smiled.

No, brilliant, better that he was doing this. Sherlock was constantly confounded by his inability to remember how much he actually enjoyed talking to her. It was ridiculous to be so reluctant to do so, and he supposed that stemmed from Mycroft's overbearing attitude and his constant attempts to guilt trip Sherlock by invoking their mother's reactions.

"Hello, Mum."

"Lovely to hear from you, darling. How are you?"

"I'm brilliant, Mum."

"And John?"

"He's brilliant, too. He sends his love."

"And give mine to him," she replied.

"I will. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine, as always, darling. Mycroft hasn't pressured you into calling, has he?"

"No, not at all," Sherlock replied. "Entirely of my own volition. I have news for you."

"Good news, I hope," Sibyl said. "Although you don't sound distressed or displeased, so I can't imagine anything terrible has happened. Still, when one's son calls out of the blue, it's difficult to suppress a moment's unease."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said sincerely. "I didn't mean to startle you. Everything is fine. Better than fine, really."

"'Better than fine' from my wayward genius son? And what is so good that it is better than fine, my love?"

Sherlock glanced at the stairs that led up to the spare room where John was still moving about, tidying in the closet given the faint sound of the chair being picked up and then put down somewhere else, by the fact that the noises were confined to that area of the floor above.

He glanced away again, smiling to himself, running his left thumb over the brand new wedding band on his ring finger. Just over twenty-four hours now. He and John had been partners for over a year, but this change felt sudden and shocking, even though they'd been planning it for a month.

Married. Him? It seemed utterly unbelievable.

"John and I got married yesterday," he said, letting the smile into his voice.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, but not one of dismayed shock at being excluded, if he judged the quality of the silence properly. Then there was soft laughter.

"Yes, Sherlock, I know," Sibyl said warmly.

Sherlock blinked, his smile vanishing, replaced by sudden shock.

"You know?" he asked.

But how?

Only one answer.

Mycroft.

He was going to kill his brother, this time he really was. All of the precautions he'd taken, all of the bribes he'd paid, all of the wheels he'd greased to ensure that the licence was obtained and the date was booked without his name or John's working themselves up the bureaucratic ladder to land on his brother's desk. They had secured the licence on the pretence of working on a case and Sherlock had even managed to work this so they'd gone into the court buildings with Lestrade, although the DI had left before they had.

Blast, blast, _blast_, he had been so careful, more careful than he ever had in avoiding his brother's scrutiny – and he had a life time's practice at doing so.

This one thing, _this one thing_, and Mycroft could not even give him that.

"Your brother has no idea," Sibyl said before Sherlock could even draw a breath to launch into a tirade about him.

"What?" he said, coming up short again.

"Mycroft doesn't know," Sibyl repeated, a smile evident in her voice.

Sherlock paused.

"But you do," he said.

"Yes," Sibyl said simply.

"How?"

"I am not mother to you both without good reason, Sherlock," she replied. "Nor am I quite as suspicious as either of you. Mycroft is – well, he is Mycroft. But I am your mother. No matter his reach or resources, I know you better. And I know when my son loves and is loved, Sherlock. I've been expecting this for a few months now."

"Expectation and knowledge are not the same thing," Sherlock pointed out. "How did you _know_, Mum?"

"I have my own ways," she answered without actually answering at all. "And there were a few additional means at my disposal to ensure that Mycroft did not find out before you wanted him to."

Sherlock blinked, feeling unaccustomed astonishment wash through him, cold and sudden but not unwelcome.

"What?" he asked again. "Mum, how –?"

"Because I am your mother, you will allow me to keep some secrets from you, darling," she said with a smile in her voice. "I am not entirely without connections myself."

"I know," Sherlock said.

"I suspect you do," Sibyl replied. "And I believe all the precautions you took would have been more than sufficient to keep Mycroft in the dark. I simply took a few more, just in case."

"Just in case," Sherlock echoed, a slight smile tugging on his lips, shaking his head once in wonder.

"Consider it a wedding gift," Sibyl said, the smile still in her voice. "I know there is nothing you need or want that you cannot afford on your own, nor would you accept money and you certainly don't need that, either. You've always seemed to need very little, so allow me this. Congratulations, Sherlock. I am happier than you know – for _both_ of you."

Sherlock was speechless for a moment – out of everyone he knew, only Sibyl and John could make him so and then only rarely. But he felt utterly stunned by her revelation and the gift – a brief victory over Mycroft in something so personal, something that so plainly needed to be in his control and John's, not Mycroft's.

And Sibyl had helped him. Taken a clear side, even if Mycroft would never know.

"Have you told Father?"

"No, but I will, if you'd like me to. I thought it best to wait until you and John were making the announcement yourselves."

"Yes, please do tell him," Sherlock said.

"I will," Sibyl promised. "He isn't home at the moment at any rate." This didn't surprise Sherlock in the slightest; William was always in meetings or at business dinners or consulting with government officials.

Sherlock hesitated a moment.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"You're welcome, darling," Sibyl said, her voice even warmer. "Pass on my congratulations to John as well, please. And I do expect the two of you to come up for a celebratory dinner before Christmas. I'll not have my youngest son's wedding going entirely unremarked."

"We will," Sherlock assured her. And meant it.

"Now go be with your husband, darling," she said. "And make sure you tell your brother at some point. Better he hear it from you than from me or from one of his various aids."

_And better he hear it from John than from me,_ Sherlock thought with a twitch of his lips, but kept this to himself.

"I promise, Mum," he replied and she would hear nothing but truth, because they were planning on telling Mycroft that very evening, coinciding the timing nicely with Sherlock posting a pre-written blog entry that John had typed that morning.

"Good night, darling. I will see you soon."

Sherlock bid her good-bye and rung off. He sat on the couch for a minute, grinning widely at the phone in his hands, then started to laugh, springing to his feet and taking the stairs three at a time. He startled John when he pushed the door open but swallowed on John's surprise, exchanging it for his own laughter as he kissed John ardently and pushed him back onto the bed.


	3. Donovan

**A/N:** These aren't really in chronological order, but all occur within a day or so of the actual wedding.

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><p>It had to be a joke, right?<p>

It couldn't be real. This sort of thing didn't happen in real life. Murders, sure, all the time. Psychopathic serial killers with their stupid, complicated games, yes. Petty thieves, drugs dealers, hustlers, white collar criminals so _smug_ and _sure_ they could just get away with it, kidnappers, carjackers, conmen, all of it. That was life on a daily basis. Everywhere, every day, there were countless people making the lives of other people miserable, making them hurt, because they didn't care, because they were idiots or jerks or unfeeling and cruel or just insane.

Those things were real.

Her flat, that was real. The coffee she shouldn't be drinking so late, that was real. The worn pair of shoes she'd kicked off five minutes ago, those were real. The emails from her mother reminding her that she'd promised to come for dinner four times now and cancelled each time – due to some case or other – those were real.

This must be a joke.

Sally Donovan reread the blog post carefully.

It seemed genuine.

She'd read enough falsified police reports, dodgy witness statements and inconsistent victims' complaints to judge when something wasn't right. But most people didn't lodge protests with the police as a joke. Yes, the odd nut job, sure.

Well, the freak certainly qualified as odd _and_ as a nut job, so maybe it _was _a joke.

But there was the picture.

Photoshop? Or just posing for it?

"Huh," she muttered to herself, chewing on her lower lip absently.

She wouldn't put it past the freak to think this was funny or maybe to use it as bait for that Jim Moriarty maniac, but John Watson?

She'd always liked him, from the moment she'd met him. He seemed so pleasant, calm, compact, assured. Solid. Like one of those buildings designed to withstand earthquakes.

Withstanding the catastrophe known as Sherlock Holmes.

_All the good ones are taken or gay_, she thought. But John had said last year on this blog that he wasn't gay. Maybe bi?

_Does it matter?_ she asked herself with a sigh. _Taken is taken. _She knew that all too well.

She'd warned him, hadn't she? That very first case?

But he hadn't listened.

"He doesn't have friends," she'd said.

_Oh yes,_ Donovan thought, rolling her eyes. _He doesn't have friends. Now he has a husband._

Someone had already commented on the post, a few people, actually. Donovan clicked on the link to the comments, hoping they would prove it was a joke, that it was some stupid scheme dreamt up by Holmes to mess with everyone. To see how people reacted.

Because it couldn't possibly be _true._

The first reply dashed her hopes. She'd seen that name before. Half hoping, after John had broken up with that doctor, Sarah Sawyer, that this woman would bring him back round to sanity. Donovan didn't know her, but she hadn't known Sarah Sawyer either, and that hadn't stopped her from hoping the doctor John had been dating would get him away from Holmes.

_Congrats, Johnny! I knew it! All the best! All my love, T._

Signed "Tricia Remsen" who was a regular commenter and one of his army mates. Donovan had pegged them as possibly a couple, maybe waiting because of the distance.

Now she wasn't so sure.

Well, no, she _was_ sure, if this wasn't a joke. John couldn't very well be married to two people and _he_ wasn't the type to string someone along.

_Dammit_, she thought.

It hardly seemed fair.

Sherlock Holmes blew threw crime scenes, dismissing everyone and everything as imbecilic, disregarding all of the hard work that was genuinely put into solving crimes, ignoring everything he deemed boring – which cast a wide net – including paperwork, interviewing witnesses, chasing down dead end leads. All of the slogging, tedious legwork involved with police investigations that needed to be done in order to arrest and prosecute criminals.

He made a mockery of her job – and of her – but at least she'd been satisfied before that he was a miserable human being. And that he was just miserable. No one like that was happy, not really.

Then there was John Watson, this little, unassuming man who made Holmes pause when he spoke, who made the freak stop and think, who had changed _everything._

He had come from nowhere and had worked miracles without even intending to, accomplishing in weeks what people like Lestrade had been working on for years – some measure of stability and reliability from Sherlock Holmes.

And everyone had joked at first that they must be sleeping together and John ignored this and Sherlock just dismissed it as unimportant – as he did with everyone and everything.

Everyone except John.

Then, unexpectedly, a little under a year after they'd met, John had posted on his blog that they were involved.

Donovan had predicted that it would last a week before the freak got bored or John realized that he was making a very stupid mistake.

But a week had come and gone, then a month, then a year, now this.

She read the other comments. One from a nurse named Bill Murray who had served with John, one from John's mother, one from Lestrade.

Lestrade.

Donovan sighed.

That clinched it then, didn't it?

If her boss was posting, it was true.

If she'd thought the freak had been insufferable before, she couldn't imagine what he'd be like as a newlywed.

At least he'd had the decency not to have a big wedding. She didn't want to think of him being one of those melodramatic brides – well, groom, of course, but she could see him being overbearing and demanding and pompous and bitchy because that's how he always was.

Her phone buzzed and she checked the caller ID – Anderson. Donovan hit the ignore button and let him rant unheard to her voicemail. She didn't care about his thoughts right now – he could tell his wife he wanted someone to complain to.

She flipped her laptop closed and picked up her coffee before walking over to her living room window and looking down at the street below. Donovan sipped the cooling drink without really tasting it, hoping that they didn't have a case that required the freak's assistance anytime soon. She didn't want to play nice to someone who clearly didn't deserve this much goodness in his life.

What did John see in him, anyway? How long before the shine wore off and the doctor caught a glimpse of what was really underneath?

She had a hard time imagining that, though. She'd seen them together. Holmes was almost – _tender_ with John.

It was disturbing.

Donovan shook her head to herself, finishing her coffee and setting the mug aside. Let John sort out his new husband and find out what he'd gotten himself into. She had other things to worry about. Real things, cases that involved real people and real pain and real problems.

Despite it all, she couldn't shake that vague craving for the acrid tang of a cigarette that dealing with Holmes always instilled in her, even though she'd never smoked a day in her life.

_Something to get rid of that bad taste he always leaves_, she thought ruefully. Her phone buzzed again and this time she powered it off altogether to forestall any more calls from Anderson and then shut off all the lights in her flat, shucking her work clothes and crawling into her pyjamas and then into bed.


	4. Anthea

_Andy, check John's blog._

"I'm right here," Andrew replied. "You could just tell me. Put that thing down for once, why don't you?"

_Check John's blog._

"For God's sake –"

_And change your ring tone, it's rubbish._

"I like it!"

_Check John's blog! Then get in there! Because John's with him!_

"What – oh, all right, fine."

Anthea waited, smirking slightly, for Andrew to do as she had instructed. She reread the post and looked at the picture – it would need to be run through some analysis software, but at first glance it did not seem faked nor did they seem like they were posing for it. She suspected it was genuine because when Sherlock was faking happiness, he never completely looked convincing.

She'd never mentioned this because she was the only one who thought so. Possibly Mycroft did, but Sherlock never seemed happy around his brother. Anthea had two older brothers of her own and had never had these problems – but then again, her brothers weren't Mycroft Holmes.

And she – thankfully – was not Sherlock.

"Oh, shit!" Andrew cursed, smacking his head on the roof of the car when he fairly jumped out of his seat.

_You all right?_

"Dammit, Karen!" he snapped.

"Stop with the Karen," Anthea replied, glancing up momentarily from the screen. She'd moved on to checking the Asian markets, followed by a quick diversion looking into the situation with the Icelandic volcanoes, which had been mercifully silent. But it was coming up on Christmas and air traffic was always bad at this time of year, even without any input from natural disasters. She checked the weather forecasts for the eastern United States and saw a snowstorm predicted – that would shut down the major airports, delaying incoming flights from North America.

Hmm.

That would annoy Mycroft.

It always did.

But not as much as this would, if Andrew didn't get in there first and let him know before John sprung it on him. She checked the time on her phone – 7:45PM.

"Andrew!" she snapped.

"You should do it – he'll be less angry with you!"

_Busy_, she texted. _Go._

He had to. She outranked him.

With a glare that she completely ignored, Andrew sighed and opened the door, slipping out of the car in a hurry and slamming the door shut again, causing it to echo once, sharply, in the nearly empty parking garage.

When she was alone, Anthea let herself smile a triumphant, knowing smile.

Oh yes, Mycroft was going to be annoyed.

To say the least.

She paused a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

Well, might as well give him full justification for the annoyance. She didn't often do this because he _was_ her boss, but it was fun to take liberties sometimes and besides, how often did her boss' brother get married?

Only once.

She did some quick searching and found a quite expensive bottle of champagne and paid to have it delivered to the Baker Street flat on one of Mycroft's credit cards and with his compliments. She ensured the bill was emailed to her boss' account so that he would at least hesitate before going over to Sherlock and John's and very politely and pointedly dressing down his brother. Because now it looked like he'd sent a congratulatory gift.

Which he had.

He _had _paid for it, after all.

Best to keep the situation under control with those two. It made her life so much easier.

That done, and Andrew presumably having failed to one-up John Watson, Anthea went back to her work, opening a chat session with one of their contacts in Bangladesh while thumbing through the recent Al Jazira, Canadian, Australian and Japanese news to see what the rest of the world thought England was doing at the moment.

She wouldn't post anything on John's blog – she never did. Sherlock was a bright man. When the champagne arrived, he'd know who was behind it.


End file.
